


Retirement

by hanjikyo



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-03-24 23:31:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3788401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanjikyo/pseuds/hanjikyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin's a retired CIA black ops agent, one of the best actually, who tries to settle into a quiet uneventful life. Suddenly, Thorin gets an unwanted visit from a "wet team" out for his neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fifty

**Author's Note:**

> HI! *waves*  
> This is what I get for watching Bruce Willis be an awesome retiree in RED. I hope you like it.

Thorin's fifty. He slowly realizes that as he sits up fro his bed and feels a creak in his back. He winces and grasps the back of his hip before standing up and grabbing his bathrobe that he always leaves draped over a wooden chair near his bed. He yawns and pads his way out of his bedroom, through his carpeted hallway and down the stairs. He makes a beeline for the front door and quickly grabs the newspaper and the bottle of milk on his doorstep. He then heads for his mailbox and gathers up his mail and returns to his house without sparing a glance at his surroundings.

He drops the newspaper on the wooden dining table and carefully sets the milk bottle beside it. He sifts through his mail and lifts a white envelope with  a smile. The crisp typewritten 'Rivendell Pension Fund Co.' could be read at the top left and his full name written under it.

He's fifty and he's retired.

He tears the envelope open, having discarded the other envelopes on top of the newspaper, and holds the check between his thumb and forefinger. He doesn't spare another second before tearing the check into two and heading straight for his telephone.

"Rivendell Pension Fund Co. Please state your name and your government ID number." An automated voice rings through the receiver and Thorin follows suit with his full name and his ID number.

"Please wait for a moment while we patch you through to an operator." The automated voice says before a lobby tune of fills Thorin's ears.

It only takes a few seconds before the lobby music stops and a kindly, yet slightly bored, voice resonates through the receiver. A voice Thorin knows all too well.

"Rivendell Pension Fund Co. This is Bilbo speaking. How may I help you?"

"It's Thorin."

"Hey." The boredom quickly disappears and is replaced by a tone one uses when talking to a good friend.

"They forgot to send the check again." Thorin says as he tries to control the smile he's schooling on his face. He's fifty years old but he feels like a giddy schoolboy at the sound of Bilbo's voice.

"Oh my goodness. Again?" Thorin could hear a an office chair roll across the floor and a piece of paper being pulled under a pile. "I am so sorry. I'll make sure to tell them to send it to you this time."

"It's alright." Thorin says with a light chortle as he tries to relax in his armchair. He only notices that he's been tense throughout the conversation. "So," He clears his throat and tries to muster up calmness. "How's your day been?"

“It’s fine, I guess.” Bilbo mutters. Thorin furrows his eyebrows together. “You guess?” He can’t help his voice being laced with concern as he anxiously waits for a respond.

“It’s just,” Bilbo sighs heavily. “Boring. There’s nothing interesting happening to me and it drives me insane.” Exasperation is obvious in Bilbo’s voice.

“I guess, the only interesting part of my day is talking to you.” Thorin feels his cheeks heat up and a dopey smile creep up his face at Bilbo’s confession.

_He finds our conversations interesting._

The dopey smile grows a bit more as he listens to Bilbo wistfully changes t subject of their conversation and talk about the new book he’s been reading.

“I’m already halfway through and I just started yesterday. Could you believe that?” Thorin could imagine literally hear the smile through the phone. Bilbo sure loves his books and he loves narrating everything he’s read to Thorin. Thorin isn’t quite fond of reading but he does love it when Bilbo tells him the story of the book he’s currently reading.

_He’s happy and that’s all that matters._

“It’s a bit cheesy but I just love it.” Bilbo sighs dreamily. “But I just love reading about adventure with a bit of romance to spice it up a bit.” Thorin chuckles in response.

Their conversation runs on for a long while, branching from literature to places Bilbo has never been but Thorin has to plants and the wee one that’s standing by Thorin’s bedroom window. Thorin doesn’t like planting and he certainly doesn’t have a green thumb but he readily agreed to buying a small plant and growing it when Bilbo suggested it. The countless days of anxiously watching it grow and watering it a bit too much paid off at the delighted sound Bilbo gives him whenever he tells the latter about his miraculously still-living plant.

“Listen, I have to go.” Bilbo sounds disappointed and that makes Thorin’s heart flutter at the idea that Bilbo still wants to talk to him more. “My boss is glaring at me again.”

“Alright.” Thorin says with a faint smile on his face.

“I’ll talk to you soon?” Bilbo says before the line dies.

Thorin puts down the phone and rests against his armchair, a dreamy look painted over his bearded face.

He’s fifty, he’s retired and he’s in love.


	2. Amateurs

_Something’s wrong._

Thorin glares at his bedroom ceiling before sitting up. He silently slips out of his bed, grabs his bathrobe and creeps through his hallway. He halts a few steps from the stairs.

He swiftly turns, a gun with a silencer in his right hand and shoots a black figure. The body falls to the carpeted floor, it’s hand going limp and dropping the rifle but Thorin stops it with his foot before it hits the ground. He grabs the rifle while glaring at the assailant.

_Amateur._

He pads down the stairs, his eyes sharp and his stand ready. There are more of them and he’s certain of it. He hears scuffling and clinking of metal. He doesn’t even have to look before firing three gunshots to his left. Three loud thuds could be heard from the room left of the staircase.

_Noisy amateurs._

He heads for the kitchen and grabs a frying pan. He turns on the stove nonchalantly and unloads the bullets from the rifle he took from the first assailant. He drops them on the frying pan and leaves the kitchen without a second glance. He makes his way back up the stairs and into his room. He makes a quick beeline for his closet and ruffles through his wardrobe. He grabs an old jacket that's fading a bit at the elbows and a pair of jeans that he's certain he'll be comfortable in. He changes out of his pajamas and bathrobe and into the ones he just picked, all the while holding his gun with his right hand.

He crouches down to his knees and pushes at his bed’s wooden foundation. The wood makes a swishing sound and a drawer full of artillery slides out. He grabs four hand grenades, a tazer, another gun with a silencer and black pouch. He unzips the pouch open and double checks the various passports, identification cards and two wads of cash before sipping it close. He grabs a black satchel bag and dumps everything he retrieves from the drawer.

He closes the satchel and heads out the bedroom but stops. He turns around and makes a quick grab of a small brown pot with a lone flower and grips it tight with his free hand. He moves out of the house without any unnecessary glances of his surroundings. He does shoots two more black figured assailants on his way out.

He’s halfway through his backyard when a string of gunshots resonates from inside his house. A string of gunshots and heavy footsteps could be heard in response to the gunshots inside his house.

“Bullets in a frying pan. Classic” He smugly mutters to himself as he cradles the small potted plant near his chest. He’s two houses away from his house before it explodes into smithereens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit short and I am really sorry. I'll update as soon as possible.


	3. Emergency

“I’ll get it!” A young man yells through the house as he runs through the hallway and picks up the ringing phone. “Hello?”

“Other phone. Now.” The deep gruff voice from the other line orders before it goes dead. The young man stares at the phone, confused. He slowly puts down the phone and walks away from it.

“Who was that, honey?” A woman with long black hair cranes her head from another room.

“I don’t know.” The young man shrugs and makes his way to the room where the woman is. He leans against the doorframe, confusion still evident in his face. “It just said; ‘Other phon. Now.’ Then the line died.”

The woman stops what she’s doing, her frame suddenly rigid. The young man notices and straightens up himself.

“Mum? What’s wrong?”

The woman quickly turns around and marches past her son. The young man follows the woman out of the room, his intrigue growing by the second. They head to the cupboard under the staircase. The woman opens the door and inches her way to the toolbox bolted to the wall parallel to the door.

“Mum?”

The woman opens the tool box and yanks the inside by the hammer. It easily comes off, much to the surprise of her son.

Was it always that easy to yank or is mum just strong?

With the inside out of the way, a telephone could be evident. The young man simply gawks as his mother brings the phone to her ear and dials a slew of number shorter than a usual telephone number.

“Thorin.” The woman says, her voice levelled.

“Thorin?” The young man scrunches his face in confusion. The woman raises up a forefinger as if to signal her son to be quiet. The young man shuts his mouth without protest.

“Dis.” The voice on the other end is calm but a bit rushed. “It’s not a drill. Get out of the house.”

Dis nods her head and says a quick goodbye before putting the phone down and replacing the toolbox’s original inside and closing the lid. She turns around and faces the young man, her face grave.

“Fili, where’s your brother?” Her voice is calm and levelled but Fili could tell something is definitely wrong.  He just finds out there’s a secret phone inside their toolbox.

“He’s upstairs sleeping. Why” Dis grips Fili’s shoulders.

“Wake him up and pack your bags. Just a backpack of essentials and meet me here in five minutes.” She releases her hold on him and marches through the hallway.

“What? Why?” He flounders as he follows his mother. “Mum, what’s going on?”

“I’ll explain when you get your brother up and your bags are packed. Now move.” She uses her ordering voice and Fili knows there’s no way he’s going to get anymore out of her unless he does what she says.

He runs up the stairs and barges into his brother’s bedroom. He unceremoniously wakes his brother up, much to the latter’s annoyance. And shoves things into his backpack and his brother’s backpack while answering his younger brother’s grumbling questions.

“That’s all mum has told now get up, Kili.” Fili says and throws a backpack at his brother, hitting the latter in the chest. Kili grunts at the impact but stands up regardless. He follows his older brother out the room and down the staircase where their mother’s waiting for them with a large handbag under her arm.

“What’s going on Mum?” Kili questions with a yawn but their mother doesn’t reply and only ushers them to the garage and into her minivan.

She starts the engine and reminds her boys to put on their seatbelt. She bends and grabs something under her seat and doesn’t even falter at her sons’ reaction to the gun she’s now holding in her hand.

She steps on the gas and the minivan zooms out the garage and down the road.

~*~

“So you’re telling us, Uncle Thorin’s not just a retired army veteran.”

“Yes”

“And he was once in the CIA.”

“Yes.”

“And the reason why Uncle called is because someone’s trying to kill him.”

“Yes.”

“And they’re probably gonna kill us as well.”

“Yes.”

“Wow.” Fili exhales loudly while simultaneously closing Kili’s wide open mouth.

Apparently their Uncle Thorin’s much cooler than they already thought he is.

~*~

Dis drives up the pebbled pathway leading up to a large Victoria house, her expression grim. She quickly stops the engine and steps out of the car. The two boys follow suit, grabbing their respective bags and tailing their mother without a single sound. The whole car ride, after Dis finally explains to them everything she thinks they needed to know, was extremely tense. No one said a single word after their conversation about Thorin, though Fili and Kili made furtive glances at their mother as if she was a ticking bomb about to go off at any second.

The trio reach the front door and Dis presses the doorbell. The door opens and a stout old man with an impressive white beard smiles at her.

“Dis.”

The man takes a good look at her and his previous cheerful expression quickly changes into one of dread. He narrows his eyes and peers over her shoulder at her two sons, each having a full backpack hanging from one or both of their shoulders.

“Come in.” His voice is urgent and serious as he opens the door a bit wider and lets the three visitors shuffle in. He surveys his front porch with narrowed and careful eyes before closing the door shut and bolting it for good measure.

“What’s wrong?” The man doesn’t spare a second before interrogating Dis, his voice lacing with anxiety and concern.

“It’s Thorin, Balin. Someone sent a wet team to his house.” Dis says, the once stoic expression she schooled during the whole drive disappears completely at the mention of her older brother’s name. Fili and Kili could now see the raw fear on their mother’s face.

The old man called Balin nods his head. He puts a comforting hand on Dis’s shoulder and reassures he that her brother would be perfectly fine. “You know him, lassie. He’s a tough one.”

He leads her and the boys to the dining room where the pristine dining table is littered with crayons and pieces of paper with drawn pictures on it. Balin tells them to sit down before disappearing through a swinging door. He comes back a few seconds later with an old lady in an apron following him. She had a tray with refreshments and an assortment of biscuits. She puts down the tray quickly and rushes over to Dis and hugs the latter tightly. Clearly, Balin has told her of what happened.

“You can stay here as long you need, you hear me?” The old woman loving ly says as she brushes a few stray strands of hair from Dis’ s forehead. Dis mutely nods her head and hugs the lady once more.

“Thank you, Magda.” Dis says as she holds tight to the lady.

~*~

“The boys are all settled in.” Magda’s sweet voice rings through the dining room. Balin smiles at his wife and nods his head once. He pulls the chair beside him and waits for his wife to occupy it.

Dis watches from across the table the sweet smile Balin and Magda share as the old lady sits herself properly and Balin helps her push the chair nearer the table. She lets herself smile at the old couple, trying to push the slight pang back into the crevices of her heart.

She quickly averts her eyes and tries to examine the crockery on top of the wooden shelf to her right.

_Would we have been like this, if Vili were still alive? He’d still be as childish as ever though_.

Dis tries to suppress a smile as she reminisces of her late husband and how he’d be as immature as his two sons.

_Both him and Frerin._

_Frerin._

“Frerin!” Dis suddenly exclaims, swiftly drawing Balin and Magda’s attention. Her eyes widen at the thought of her other brother.

Balin and Dis stand up from the table immediately and rush out of the dining room.

“Magda, we’re heading out.” Balin calls out as he puts on his fisherman’s jacket. Magda comes out of the dining room as well and nods her head. He makes her way to her husband, fixes the collar of his jacket and gives him a kiss.

“I’ll watch over the kids.” She smiles at him as she gently pats his cheek. She averts her eyes from Balin’s and gives Dis a warm smile. “You two better take care.” She says with a hushed tone and ushers the two out of the front door.


	4. Lukewarm Beers & Old Friends

Thorin strides into the dingy-looking bar. He hasn’t been into one for a long time and the rowdy atmosphere, with the yelling men who are probably intoxicated beyond reckoning to the jukebox playing music too loud for comfort, makes him feel, dare he says it, old.

He makes his way to the counter, dodging a flying empty beer bottle that smashes into pieces as it hits the wall instead, and orders an cold beer. He takes a swig and winces at the distant familiarity of it. When was the last time he had one of these?

Thorin smirks to himself as he recalls the last time he had a cold beer in his hand. It was in a bar very much like the one he’s in right now. He and his mates were having a drink after a long day’s work that ended into brawl with a group of cocky bastards over something h couldn’t remember anymore.

Good times.

He takes another swig but quickly puts his bottle down when the music suddenly comes to a screeching halt. If his memory serves him right, jukebox music is never abruptly stopped unless something troubling is going to happen.

_“Look here, grandpa, this pub ain’t big enough for the both us.”_

Thorin smirks as he hears chuckling, a deep humourless chuckle. Thorin can’t help but chuckle himself. He’d recognize that chuckle anywhere. Usually a punch or two would come right after it.

A loud thud resonates throughout the bar. Thorin turns around completely and see an unconscious lump of body on the bar floor, which he’s certain is very unhygienic judging from the faint scent of pee and liquor when he entered the bar. He looks up from the poor unconscious bastard to the man looming over him.

A man with brown shaggy hair way past his ears and a threadbare jacket is plucking at what looks like a brown trapper hat. He looks with disinterest and boredom at the man still slumped on the floor. He hums after staring at the man for quite a while and places the hat on his head, pulling the flaps down to cover his ears.

“Well, I guess you’re not up for a brawl.” He steps over the man on the floor. “Shame, really.” He doesn’t spare the man a second glance as he makes his way to the door.

He reaches the counter and smiles at the bartender who’s wiping a glass, the same glass he’s been wiping since Thorin entered the bar. “Sorry ‘bout that, mate.” The bartender chortles and shakes his head slowly.

“The younger the wee bastards are, the cockier they get.” The man in the brown trapper hat says as he places a couple of bills on top of the counter.

“That’s true enough, Bofur.” The bartender sighs as he puts the glass down and takes the money. He walks to where an old cashier register is resting and punches a few buttons before stashing Bofur’s payment into the register’s drawer.

Bofur smiles, the side of his eyes crinkling and his pupils twinkling, and bids the bartender farewell. He walks towards the bar’s entrance, fixing his hat a couple of times and not minding any of the other bar patrons.

“Still chuckle before you punch.”

Bofur stops in his tracks and whirls his head to his right, to a man in a black jacket seating on a bar stool by the counter. He smiles in recognition and walks slowly towards the seated figure.

“Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin smiles and stands up as Bofur comes near him. It’s been so long since he’s last saw his jolly optimistic friend. And yet, as Bofur envelopes him in a tight hug and gives his back a few hard pats, it’s like as if they’ve only seen each other yesterday.

“You son of a gun.” Bofur sighs as they sit themselves on the bar stools by the counter. Thorin laughs and takes a swig of his now lukewarm beer.

“How’ve you been, Bofur?” Thorin asks as the bartender hands Bofur an uncapped cold beer without being asked. Bofur laughs and makes a content sound before taking a swig of his beer and setting it down beside Thorin’s

“I’m good. You know, still in the wood business.” Bofur smiles.

“How’s Bifur and Bombur?” Thorin takes a swig of his beer. He can’t help but feel relaxed around Bofur. They’ve been mates since their trainee days that he considers him as a brother already.

“They’re doing good. Bifur’s improving everyday. He still can’t talk though but he can communicate with me and Bombur with sign language.” Thorin looks at Bifur as the latter talks about his family, well what’s left of it really. “And you’ve probably heard that Bombur’s retired from show business.” Bofur laughs as he leans into the counter. “He’s running a chain of restaurants specializing in breakfast now.”

“Let me guess, he still eats half the pantry.” Thorin laughs at the memory of Bofur’s rotund brother. Bofur laughs at what he says and nods his head. The two of them laugh for little while more until Bofur’s laugh dies down and he sighs heavily.

“But seriously, Thorin, why the sudden visit?” Thorin stops laughing now and clears his throat. The amusement in his face is quickly replaced by a grim and serious look.

“Someone sent a wet team into my house ten hours ago.” Thorin’s voice lowers and Bofur inches a tad closer to him. Thorin fishes something out of his jacket pocket, a yellow courier’s envelope, and places it on top of the bar counter in front of Bofur. The hated one raises an eyebrow and glances at the envelope then at Thorin. He grabs the courier envelope and opens it to see it’s contents.

Bofur doesn’t flinch, his face expressionless, as he looks down at the severed fingers inside the courier envelope. He closes the envelope and hands it to Thorin with a shake of a head.

“This use to be a gentleman’s game.” He sighs as takes a swig of beer as he watches Thorin pocket the courier envelope. “Why are they after you?”

Thorin shrugs. “I have no bloody idea, Bofur. That’s why I’m here, thinking you might know something about it.” Bofur chuckles and looks at his friend.

“I haven’t been aware of anything, Thorin. You should’ve asked Nori.”

“Well, do you know where I could find Nori?”

At the mention of finding Nori, Bofur couldn’t help himself but laugh.

“Nori’s a shadow, mate. He’s my best friend but I haven’t seen the dickhead in what? Ten years?”

Bofur stops laughing at the sight of Thorin forlorn expression.

“What about Dwalin?”

Thorin’s expression suddenly picks at the mention of Dwalin’s name. He’s certain he’s caught wind of what happened to Thorin by now thanks to Dis and Balin. Thorin nods his head resolutely. He quickly downs the remaining contents of his beer and drop his payment on the counter beside his now empty bottle. He stands up and straightens his jacket.

“It’s nice seeing you, Bofur.” He smiles at his friend before making way to the entrance. He’s suddenly stopped by a hand on his arm though. He looks at the hand then at it’s owner. Bofur downs his beer in one swift swig and slams it on the counter, along with a bill in payment for it.

“You’re not going without me, mate.” Bofur’s eyes twinkle and the sides crinkle as he gives his old friend a mischievous smile.

Thorin smiles and shakes his head. He doesn’t want to get any of the people he cares for hurt in this atrocious quest of his.

“You might get killed , my friend.”

Thorin doesn’t think Bofur’s smile would become any bigger but it did. He believes it’s the mention of the prospect of getting killed.

“Great. Let’s get going then.”


	5. A Bloody Bad Idea

“This is a bloody bad idea, Thorin.”

Bofur stares at his friend in the driver’s seat. Of all the dumbest things Thorin could think of this is, by far, the worst. Going on this quest with a 99.9% of getting killed is just fine with Bofur. But picking up an innocent bystander because Thorin fancies them is..

“Ridiculous.” Bofur tries to bury his head into his hat as if he’s completely embarrassed. Thorin’s going to make a complete fool out of himself and the bloody bastard’s going to pull Bofur along with him.

They planned on driving to the last known destination of Nori’s whereabouts. Bofur had to make a few calls, sweet talk his way through half of them, before they rounded on a single place. It was smooth sailing, the two of them talking about the good ol’ days and former comrades of theirs who are either incarcerated or a dozen feet under the ground, until Thorin suddenly makes a detour. And here they are now, in front of a quaint-looking bungalow with a garden that seems to be larger than the actual house.

 _Is that why Thorin has a tiny potted plant on his dashboard?_ Bofur thinks as he watches the quaint little house. The whole place is dark save from a light on the lower left window.

“I like this one, alright?” Thorin half growls as he grips the steering wheel of their car.

Bofur stares at his old friend.

_Thorin Oakenshield liking someone._

_Well, that’s new._

Bofur sighs and slowly shakes his head, as if accepting defeat. There’s no way in changing his friend’s mind. If Thorin sets his mind on something, he’ll follow it through.

_Even if it’s the dumbest idea ever._

“Fine.” Bofur watches as Thorin gives him a thankful smile. Thorin unbuckles his seatbelt and makes a move to exit the car.

“But if this one doesn’t go willingly and calls the police, I’m ratting you out mate.”

Thorin just smiles at him before sauntering to the front door.  

~*~

Bilbo Baggins sighs and closes his eyes as he rests his back against his favourite armchair, his feet snugly placed on top of a footrest and his hands clutching his favourite mug filled with tea. If asked, Bilbo would say that this is the only good part of his day. His car decided it was a good day to not start so he had to walk to work. Then his boss was giving him loads of unwanted ire this morning and it just made Bilbo’s day thoroughly miserable. He didn’t get a call from Thorin, which is the only good thing with his job. For once he’s got someone he could talk to and would listen intently and sincerely to all his ramblings and actually takes his advice and responds quite intelligently. Honestly, if Thorin wasn’t a retiree Bilbo might’ve invited the hot sultry voice (his secret pet name for his favourite caller that no one has to know) to his house and might’ve done _things_ that sends red splotches to Bilbo’s cheeks.

But things just don’t seem to go his way at all.

At least he still had tea.

His glorious tea, yes.

~*~

Bilbo stirs and jolts, his eyes suddenly wide open and his breathing hitched. he must’ve fallen asleep while drinking his tea. Marvellous. Bilbo twitches his nose in distaste as he thinks of his unfinished tea. Leave it to Bilbo Baggins to waste a mug full of nice tea. He blinks a number of times and reaches up to his eyes and rub with his knuckles but stops halfway through his rubbing.

_Odd._

He distinctly remembers he was clutching his mug of tea before drifting off into dreamland. Then a horrid realization dawned on him. He might’ve dropped his mug and spilled the tea on his floor. He makes an inaudible sound at the back of his throat, a sound he makes when he’s distressed as he whips his head from side to side in search for his fallen mug and wasted tea.

“I just hope I didn’t break the mug.” He bends forward until his head is between his legs and his curly brown hair is brushing against his wooden floor. “It’s one of my favourites.”

Bilbo quickly lifts his head, surprised that he didn’t get dizzy with his sudden cranial movement, at the sound of ceramic hitting a tray. He stares incredulously at his mug, still filled with tea, on top of the tray he laid on top of his armchair’s side table a few hours ago. Well at least his mug’s still intact but he’s quite certain it doesn’t come with large manly hands at the handle. Bilbo slowly looks up until his eyes meet a set of the bluest eyes he has ever seen.

He should be jumping out of his chair and yelling bloody murder by now while throwing random things at the stranger. Instead, he stares at the man’s eyes then down to his extremely sharp nose and the scraggly-looking beard covering almost half of the man’s face.

The man stares back down at him, his face expressionless until he cracks a slight twitch of his lip that Bilbo thinks could be equated to a smile.

_He’s going to kill me and they’ll just find my body three days later with half my face eaten by rats._

“Hi.” A deep and sultry voice comes out of the man’s mouth and something ebbs at the back of Bilbo’s mind as if he’s heard of that voice before he just couldn’t pinpoint where or when. He doesn’t bother trying to remember it though since he’s already out of his armchair and clutching the nearest thing his hand could lay on as a type of weapon.

“Who are you?” Bilbo’s grip tightens on whatever object he’s holding as a weapon. His voice is suddenly demanding as he shifts behind his armchair, thinking that’s a safe distance from the stranger with the beautiful eyes and familiar voice.

The man let’s go of his mug and clears his throat. He brushes his fingers through his hair, and if he wasn’t a possible serial killer Bilbo would’ve found that hot. He does find it hot but that’s not the point because Mr. Blue-eyed hottie might be a deranged serial killer who’s about to kill him and scrape the skin off his poor defenseless body. If he lives through this, Bilbo tells himself that he has to install bigger locks and maybe a few cameras and maybe stop watching documentaries about serial killers on late night television.

“It’s Thorin.” Bilbo’s face contorts from confusion to realization at the man’s name.

_Retiree Thorin._

_Hot-voiced retiree Thorin._

_Hot-voice retiree Thorin that he’s been spending hours flirting with on the phone._

“What are you doing in my house?” Bilbo asks, his grip not even loosening despite knowing who the guy is. “How do you even know where I live?”

Thorin opens his mouth but closes it suddenly as if what he was about to say might not be a sufficient enough answer to calm Bilbo down. Thorin makes a move, a bit cautiously Bilbo might add, towards him with both his hands up and palms facing Bilbo to signal that he doesn’t mean any harm.

“Bilbo,” Bilbo might’ve swooned at the way his name easily rolled through Thorin’s tongue if he wasn’t figuratively shitting his pants in fear at the moment. “You need to come with me.” Thorin says it slowly as if trying to make Bilbo understand something very complex.

“What? Why would I come with you? I barely know you! And may I add you just broke into my house.”  Bilbo declares as he backs away from Thorin.

“Please listen..”

Bilbo doesn’t hear the rest of what Thorin is about to say as he feels a hard blow to the back of his head that made him see black.

~*~

Thorin stares, his eyes wide with his brows furrowed and his mouth wide open, at an unconscious Bilbo at his feet then at Bofur who was holding a book.

“What’d you do that for?!” He all but yells at his hatted friend.

“You were taking too damn long!” Bofur replies, his voice louder than usual and his expression accusing as if he didn’t just hit an innocent person on the head.

“I had it under control, Bofur.” Thorin glares at his friend as he crouches down and squeezes his arms under Bilbo’s body. He lifts himself up, with Bilbo tucked carefully in his arms, with great ease.

“Oh yes,” Bofur rolls his eyes as he puts the book back where he took it. “How was that going for you, so far?” Sarcasm was simply seeping out his every pore as he and Thorin make their way out of the living room and towards the front door.

All he gets is a scowl from his friend.

Bofur grabs the red jacket hanging from the coat peg and the first pair of shoes he lays his hands on before opening the door. He might’ve hit the poor lad at the back of the head but he’s a decent enough person to make sure the tiny unconscious figure Thorin is currently pinning over is warm enough in this crazy quest of theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for not updating in quite a while. TT_TT


	6. Fine

“Frerin!” Dis calls out as she and Balin enter her brother’s apartment. They don’t bother taking their jackets off as they sidestep one clump of clutter from another. Frerin has never been a tidy person and, judging from the t-shirt hanging from a horrendous antler mount plaque and piles of dirty dishes in the sink, he still is.

“Mom would’ve had a fit if she’s seen this.” Dis chuckles as she and Balin walk through her brother’s cluttered hallway. Balin simply chuckles in reply. They don’t even need to elaborate on what Dis just said because they both know how much of a clean freak Thorin, Frerin and Dis’s mother was and she would’ve definitely had a conniption if she saw her second son’s apartment.

“Frerin!” It’s Balin who calls out this time and still no answer. They walk through the apartment more, opening doors and checking if Frerin’s inside.

After scouring the whole place twice, and maybe cleaning a few nooks and putting away some dishes on Dis’s part, the two stop searching and decide to call Frerin. Balin takes out his phone and dials Frerin’s number. They dial and wait for an answer three more times before Dis throws her hands up with a groan.

“Where does he even go at this hour?!” Dis all but yells but Balin just quietly shakes his head and dials once again. Dis paces back and forth while giving Balin, who’s still trying to reach her extremely unreachable and irresponsible brother, disgruntled looks.

Balin lowers the phone and simply shakes his head. “It’s no use, lass. He won’t be answering anytime soon.” He makes a move to place his phone inside when it suddenly rings. Balin takes out his phone and looks at the caller’s ID.

“It’s Gloin.” He lifts the phone to his ear and talks to the caller on the other line.

Suddenly Balin’s eyes widen and he lifts his hand to stop Dis from pacing. Dis stops and watches her cousin with bated breath. He beckons to her and Dis doesn’t waste another second before coming closer and trying to listen in the phone conversation.

“Frerin? Dis suddenly says but is resolutely hushed by Balin.

“Yes, she’s with me.” Balin nods his head and pulls the phone away from his ear and presses the speaker button.

“Dis?” A throaty voice resonates from the phone. Dis inches her way even more to the phone and calls out her brother’s name out of impulse.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me.” Dis suddenly releases a sigh of relief. Her shoulders droop in relaxation as she takes the phone from Balin, who simply smiles at her.

“A group came over to my house, earlier this evening. They even had the audacity to pose as a group of delivery boys.” Frerin’s easy chuckle makes Dis smile. Her brother always had an inkling of making light of every situation. It never rubbed off of Thorin, though. Their eldest was always the serious and formal one and Frerin and Dis never stops teasing him about it.

“Don’t worry about me, Dis. Gloin’s keeping me safe.” Frerin says, trying his best to soothe her little sister who he’s certain is worried out of her wits by now. Dis chuckles when she hears Gloin at the back yelling something obscene at a laughing Frerin .

“And besides,” Frerin clears his throat as he mellows from laughing. “It’s Thorin you should be worried about. He sent me a short text yesterday, telling me to get my emergency bag.” Dis makes eye contact with Balin, both their faces grave and serious.

“Something’s up, Dis. Someone’s after him.” Frerin says, the mirth in his voice completely disappearing.

Dis and Frerin continue talking until the latter says that he has to hang up. Dis nods her head, slightly forgetting that she’s talking on the phone and not with someone in front of her, and says she understands.

“Hey, thanks for letting us use your phone Balin!” Frerin says and receives a chortle from the old man.

“Don’t mention it, laddie.”

“Take care of yourself, Dis. And the boys.” Frerin says. Dis hums in understanding.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” Dis replies and finishes the call. She returns the phone to Balin with a smile and a thank you.

“Well,” Balin says, a bit of cheer in his voice, as he puts his phone back inside his pocket. “At least we know he’s fine.” He give Dis a reassuring smile and tells her that it’s time to leave.

Dis nods her head with a smile and follows Balin out of the door. Her smile suddenly disappears, though, as her mind suddenly reverts to Thorin.

_Oh good Lord, I hope he’s alright._

~*~

“You know, having a broken leg and one arm in a sling isn’t fine” Gloin says as watches his cousin from the door frame dividing the living room and the hallway where the house telephone is. Gloin’s arms were crossed and resting on his chest as he tentatively watches Frerin wobble his way towards the living room, always ready to help his younger cousin if needed. He wasn’t the only one watching Frerin’s precarious excuse of mobility. Oin, his older brother who always serves as the go-to medic for the family, narrows his eyes as he glares at a wobbly Frerin.

“She doesn’t have to know that, Gloin.” Frerin sighs as he wobbles past Gloin and makes his way to the loveseat Gloin’s wife, Nora, has kindly laid out a few extra pillows and a quilt for him to rest in while he’s out of the guest room.

“She doesn’t _need_ to know.” Frerin solemnly says as he plops down on the loveseat.

Gloin simply nods his head in understanding. Sometimes, he’s astounded at how Frerin could be very serious when it matters. And he doesn’t blame the lad. Their family’s safety is on the line.

And from what Gloin knows, as he watches his teenage son Gimli flow down in front of his uncle Frerin, family will always matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Frerin is safe (well as far as he's concern). And Gloin and Oin appear YEAY! 
> 
> I hope you guys are fine with how I portrayed my Frerin. I wanted him to be the complete opposite of Thorin except when it comes to their family.


	7. Lumpy Hotel Beds And Illegal Eyes

Bilbo groans and slowly flutters his eyes open.

_Where am I?_

_And why does it seem like I'm moving?_

His vision is bleary. He tries to turn his head whilst simultaneously blink his eyes but it just proves to be impossible.

_What on Earth happened? Last thing I remember is my living room and a delicious mug of Earl Grey tea. And then.._

An image of a handsome blue-eyed bearded man suddenly flashes through his mind and Bilbo inwardly curses as a massive headache follows right after Mr. blue-eyed hottie.

_Mr. Blue-eyed hottie._

Bilbo's eyes suddenly widen as a wave of realization drops on him. The stranger, in his house. He was, undoubtedly, handsome but that doesn't warrant the fact that he just broke into Bilbo’s house and suddenly asks Bilbo to come with him like they know each other.

_We do, though._

Mr. Blue-eyed hottie is Thorin. The same man he's been willingly talking and flirting with on the phone.

Bilbo tries to push the slight happiness the illogical side of him has at the perfect combination of the sultry voice he dreams about and a drop dead gorgeous man. He’s supposed to be frightened out of his wits and looking for a way to get out.

His vision steadies and his line of vision catches the sight of a door handle. A car door handle.

_I’m in a car._

And judging from the tremors he’s feeling, a moving car at that.

Bilbo makes a move to reach for the door handle when he suddenly realizes that he couldn't move his hands.

_I’m in a car and my hands are tied. Bilbo Baggins, what sort of confounded mess have gotten yourself into. Ever heard of to not talk to strangers? Regardless of how appealing their voice is._

He mentally berates himself as he glares at the car door handle that he’s unable to reach because of his bound predicament.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” A chipper voice leads to Bilbo whipping his head to look at the passenger seat. A man with a silly-looking hat was grinning at him. Bilbo would’ve had smiled back if he just wasn't kidnapped by, by the looks of if, a pair of lunatics. Handsome lunatics, but that’s not the point.

“Sorry for the predicament we’ve placed you in, lad.” If a flicker of guilt and a sheepish smile appears on the hatted man’s face then Bilbo tries his best not to acknowledge it.

Bilbo glares at the man and doesn't respond.

“I’m Bofur, by the way.” The man bows his head a little as if in greeting. “And prince charming right here is Thorin but I’m certain you know him already.” The man named Bofur pats the shoulder of the driver. Bilbo glances at the driver’s back, well more like glares at the man’s back. He shifts his eyes and accidentally lands on the car’s rear-view mirror where his eyes meet Thorin’s blue ones. Bilbo blinks a couple of times before averting his gaze to something else.

“So,” Bilbo looks at Bofur. “You’re a phone operator for a pension company.” The hatted man still has a grin on his face that only convinces Bilbo that these two men are lunatics.

“Do you like your job?”

The question shocks Bilbo and, for a moment, he stops glaring and simply stares at Bofur like a deer in the headlights.

_Did he like his job?_

_Then why did he stick with it, then?_

Bilbo’s eyes suddenly flicker towards Thorin’s back.

“It pays the bills.” Bilbo shrugs and mumbles. Bofur simply nods his head in understanding.

Bofur doesn't ask him anymore questions and the three of them ride in silence. Bilbo tries his best to stare out the car window but he couldn't help but sneak glances at Thorin.

~*~

The three of them drove through the night and only stopped at cheap looking motel with neon signs that has a gas station in front of it. Bofur did all the talking at the front desk while Thorin drapes an arm over Bilbo’s shoulders. They didn't untie Bilbo’s hands but Thorin did help him into his shoes and draped a large black jacket, which Bilbo suspects is Thorin since it reaches pass his knees and it smells conspicuously like Old Spice and musk.

“Please don’t do anything stupid. We won’t hurt you, I promise.” Thorin whispers into his ear, the man’s scraggly beard brushing against his skin, as they wait for Bofur to finish getting a room for them. Bilbo fights down a shiver at the contact, as if having Thorin’s strong arm around him couldn't drive him crazy already.

With a few more pleasantries exchange between Bofur and the lady receptionist and an impatient clearing of a throat from Thorin, the three of them headed to their room. Thorin takes his jacket off of Bilbo and all but carries the much smaller man towards the bed earning an indignant squeal from Bilbo.

In a completely different circumstance, Thorin would've like this scenario playing out. He would happily carry Bilbo to a bed, or any surface really he’s not picky, and have their way with each other. But, unfortunately for the two of them, the present circumstance is not the time for those kind of thoughts. And Thorin’s certain Bilbo hates him by now.

Thorin gently puts Bilbo down on the lumpy hotel bed and positions the much smaller man into a comfortable sitting position with his back resting against the headboard.

“Look,” Bilbo says as Thorin unties his hands only to have Bofur tie his wrists unto the bed’s wooden headboard. “I won’t press charges, just let me go.” Bilbo all but pleads as he helplessly watch Bofur walk out of the bedroom with a meaningful glance to Thorin.

Thorin sighs and sits himself down beside Bilbo. His face is buried into his hands as if he’s distressed. Bilbo almost feels sorry for him.

_Almost._

“I know this isn't the best way to meet someone you've been talking on the phone for months.” Thorin starts, of what looks like a prepared speech. He looks Bilbo in the eye and the latter could still feel it piercing through him in the most glorious of ways.

“It’s just,” Thorin sighs heavily once more, his eyes shutting as the heavy breath comes out of him but looking back at Bilbo with the same piercing gaze.

_His eyes should be illegal._ Bilbo laments as he squirms under Thorin’s scrutiny.

“You’re in trouble and it’s all my fault and I really want to make sure you’re safe and this,” Thorin makes a motion to Bilbo’s bound hands. “Is the only way I know how.”

Something shifts in Thorin’s gaze and Bilbo could swear he just saw a flicker of something vulnerable in them.

“Thorin,” Bofur’s head popped through the door and Thorin drops his gaze with Bilbo to look at his hatted friend. Bilbo releases a breath that he didn’t know he was holding.

“I’ve located Dwalin.” That’s all Bofur says before disappearing again. Thorin stands up from the bed. He grabs the duffel bag that they took with them and fishes through it for something. Bilbo watches him with mild curiosity.

“We have to go.” Thorin says as he drops the duffel bag to the floor and holds the things he took out from it with one hand. Bilbo suddenly realizes that the ‘we’ Thorin is referring doesn't include him.

 “You can’t just leave me here.” Bilbo all but declares as Thorin plops himself down on top of the lumpy hotel bed beside him. Thorin nods his head but doesn't untie him nonetheless.

“I’m really sorry.” Thorin mutters as he tears a piece of duct tape, which was one of the things he retrieved from the duffel bag, and slowly drives it towards Bilbo’s mouth.

“Nope. Nope.” Bilbo moves his head in every possible way, doing his best to avoid the incoming duct tape. Unfortunately for him, Thorin slightly faster for a retiree and easily plasters the duct tape over Bilbo’s mouth. Bilbo could only glare at Thorin as the latter stands up from the bed and head straight for the bedroom door.

Bilbo grumbles against the duct tape as he hears shuffling from the other room. He hears a distinct creak of an old door opening.

“See you later, Bilbo!” A cheerful Bofur all but says before Bilbo hears a slamming of a door.

_Bloody fantastic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So..yeah. 
> 
> Hi! 
> 
> I guess the story's progressing, in quite a slow way I admit.


	8. Freeway

“So where did you locate Dwalin?” Thorin asks as he and Bofur make their way down the hotel’s cemented stairs. They make their way through the dirty hotel parking lot that conspicuously smells like blood and other bodily mucous. Thorin wouldn’t

Thorin glances at his still hatted friend for an answer.

Bofur simply shrugs and makes a noncommittal sound.

Thorin abruptly stops his descent and now stares at Bofur with an incredulous expression. “What do you mean you don’t know?” Thorin suddenly blurts out.

Bofur sighs and makes a face at his friend. He puts his right hand up in front of Thorin’s face and starts moving and twisting it into different forms.

_Will you be quiet? You know we’re being watched. I’ll tell you where Dwalin is when we’re inside your lopsided car._

Thorin blinks his eyes a few times before scowling (because my car is not lopsided, excuse me) at his friend and nodding his head once. They proceed to walk to their car and don’t spare another glance before entering and locking their respective doors and Thorin starting the engine.

Thorin maneuvers the car out of their parking space and straight out of the cheap hotel’s vicinity. They drive in complete silence for quite a while, both making sure that it’s safe and that their worries are schooled into nonchalant expressions.

“Care to tell me now, where Dwalin is?” Thorin suddenly asks as they enter the freeway.

Bofur hums and Thorin could just make his friend’s nodding head through his peripheral vision. A few minutes pass and Thorin’s still waiting for an answer. He grows impatient and looks straight at his friend, maybe if he did Bofur would get the idea that he needs an answer now before they use up all their gas.

“Well?”

Bofur looks at him, a cheeky glint in his eyes and a smile that looks all too innocent that it’s slightly disconcerting. Thorin stares at his friend, cautiously watching Bofur’s every move. He suddenly realises that one of Bofur’s hands is inside his coat pocket and the other is on the car door latch.  

“Bofur?”

Before Thorin could react anymore, Bofur pulls the latch and opens his car door. The hatted man sways towards the open door and he lets his body fall until he’s hanging with his lower body tucked inside the car and his torso almost kissing the road.

Thorin grabs a hold for a partial of his friend’s pant leg while trying to steady the car. He hears two gunshots, swift and resolute. The sound of something skidding against the freeway road draws Thorin attention and he quickly looks at his side mirror to see two white and black motorbikes on its sides and the drivers flung a few meters away from their bikes.

_Oh._

Bofur comes back up from his precarious position and closes the car door along with his ascent. He tucks his gun back into his coat pocket and smiles at Thorin.

“You know you could’ve just told me to pull over.” Thorin grumbles as he replace both his hands to the steering wheel.

“And what fun would that be?” Bofur asks, his face all too happy like he just hasn’t killed a man in the middle of the freeway.

Thorin couldn’t help but smirk and slowly shakes his head. “Insane.”

Bofur guffaws at his remark. “Says the one who once charged at a tank with just a handgun.”

~*~

"So this Bilbo," Bofur glances at his driving friend with an unschooled expression of amused curiosity. Thorin hasn't really been forthcoming in explaining the adorable; because Bofur has to hand it to his friend the lad is adorable like a cherub, addition to their company.

They’re a few hours away from the cheep hotel and the two tails on bikes and Bofur has already given him directions – specific ones because heaven only knows how inept Thorin is when it comes to navigating without help – on how to get to Dwalin.

"He's not an object, Bofur." Thorin grimaces as he tries to focus on the road ahead, his grip in the steering wheel going just a tad tighter.

"I know." Bofur quickly nods. "It's just," He crinkles his face, an expression Thorin very well knows as one used when one doesn't know what to say. "In all the years I've known, and I've known for a very long time now judging from the gray streaks and the crow's feet," Bofur gets a growl from Thorin but the former doesn't take heed to it. "you've never been this interested with anyone before."

Thorin sighs heavily and gives his hatted friend an exasperated look. He knows exactly where this conversation will be going and he's praying to the heavens that it doesn't go there.

"What makes this one special, mate?" Bofur waits for an answer but, judging by Thorin's scowl, he's not going to get one any sooner. Bofur thought as much, really. Thorin has always been the silent brooding type who likes bottling everything up. Thorin will speak if Thorin thinks it is fit to. And Bofur, as a good friend, would respect that.

So he lets it go.

"He makes me laugh." Bofur suddenly whips his head to look at THorin. Well, he wasn't expecting that. Thorin glances at him and Bofur could swear he could see the edge of the man's lips tilt up for just a bit.

"And he makes me nervous and I like listening to him talk." Thorin shrugs and for a second he looks like a teenage boy pinning over someone. And he is pinning except he's a few years closer to arthritis than his high school graduation.

"And.." Thorin trails off. Bofur's still staring at his friend, still trying to process the fact that someone has actually made the great Thorin Oakenshield this breathless let alone this interested aside from his job and his family, waiting for Thorin to continue what he’s supposed to say.

“You know how it is Bofur.” Thorin sighs. He’s obviously unable to supplement anymore explanation for his friend but Bofur doesn’t push him. “Remember when it was you and Nori and you just couldn’t shut up about him but at the same time you absolutely have no idea how to make us see what you see in the bastard because words would just fall short?” Thorin looks at his friend and Bofur could see the raw honesty and emotion in his friend’s eyes.

“Aye.” Is all Bofur says because, Thorin’s right, he knows exactly how it is in these situations. He’s been in one before, with a sneaky little bastard who was just too fast at dodging everything even his own best friend’s feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a bit of Nori/Bofur there..
> 
> Next up is them FINALLY locating where Dwalin is.


	9. Fr. Ishmael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for taking too long to update! I'll try to update more since I have some free time now.

“You have got to be joking.” Thorin gawks at the building in front of him as he exits the car. “You sure this is the place?” He glances at his friend and Bofur simply hums and nods in affirmation.

“Don’t worry, Thorin, you followed the directions correctly this time.” Bofur cheekily says as he closes the car door at his side and makes his way to the building. He could hear Thorin protesting in his usual grumbling manner but Bofur doesn’t pay any attention.

“This cannot be real.” Thorin’s still gawking at the building as he makes his way to the entrance where Bofur is waiting for him. “Of all the places,” He says under his breath as he and Bofur push open the wooden double doors. “What is he doing in a church, anyway? Is he the janitor or something?”

“I don’t bloody know, mate. Your guess is as good as mine. Besides, this is where my computer located him so..” Bofur’s voice trails to silence as they enter the church. They make their way to one of the many immaculately clean pews. They haven't been to a church in a very long time and it shows by the way they awkwardly shuffle through the place and gingerly sit on one nearest to a both the door and a widow.

Thorin never liked churches. It only reminded him of strict Sunday classes with irate old ladies and candle-lit wakes with only wailing and sniffing sounds as the background sound. He can’t remember the exact time he last entered the church but he’s certain it wasn’t a pleasant affair at all.

The only occupants aside from him and Bofur were a group of nuns huddled together near the organ at the front. A random tune would start playing with a few female voices accompanying it would play once in a while as the two men waited.

The two sit in silence as they watch the nuns sing, well at least try to do so, and wait for any sign of Dwalin. Thorin is cousins with the man and they do meet up, mostly during family gathering, but they never talk about their lives so they never knew what the other really did for a living.

A wooden door at the side of the altar opens and two nuns shuffle out. One of them heads straight to the group of singing nuns. The other one makes her way towards Thorin and Bofur. Thorin nudges his friend with an elbow to the ribs and they both sit up straight.

“Please head to the confessional, my sons.” The woman’s voice is calm and kind but there was an underlying urgency to her voice.

Thorin and Bofur could only gape at the nun. They’re quite certain they look decent enough to enter a church and their weapons are perfectly stashed inside their clothes where only a person with a trained eye could notice it.

"A confessional." Thorin deadpans as they continue to gape at the nun.

“Yes, gentleman.” The nun sighs in exasperation and repeats her request while nodding, in a not so subtle way, towards the wooden confessional to their right.

Bofur stands up first, albeit slowly and pulls his friend by his jacket’s arm into standing up with him. They make their way to the confessional, once in a while sparing quick confused glances at the nun who just told them to.

Thorin glares at the confessional as if it had wronged him somehow. He could feel Bofur fidgeting and looking around the place behind him. “Thorin,” Thorin stops glaring at the confessional and inclines his head to listen to what Bofur has to say.

“The priest’s side’s light is lit.” Thorin looks up and, lo and behold, the light is lit. He raises one eyebrow at it.

_What if it’s a trap?_

He grabs the knob of the confessional door and pulls the door open. At the same time, he gropes at the gun tucked inside his jeans under his jacket.

_Might as well get it over with._

He and Bofur squeeze inside, shoving each other a few times before they settle into a somewhat bearable position. They hear a faint shuffling from the other side and the two of them instinctively grab their guns and point it at the netted window dividing the priest and confessor’s nook.

The wooden panel covering the netted window suddenly slides open and the two men almost drop their guns at the sight that welcomed them. There, seated inside the priest’s nook of the confessional, is a large muscular man in a black cassock with a Roman collar, one hand clutching a gun with a silencer and pointing it right at them.

“Dwalin?” Thorin and Bofur lower their guns as they stare at the man they’re sure is Dwalin.

Dwalin lowers his gun and tucks it inside the pocket of his black cassock. A guttural chuckle comes out from the man.

“Good to see you two, too.” He smiles at the two of them.

“You’re a..” Bofur couldn’t seem to finish what he’s saying as he points at their large bearded friend as if the latter just grew another head.

“A priest, yes.” Dwalin nods calmly, which slightly frightened Thorin because Dwalin was never calm. For all the years he’s known Dwalin, Thorin’s certain the man only has a handful of emotions and calm was never one of them.

“Balin called.” Dwalin says as he swats Bofur’s finger that has wedged itself through one of the holes in the window. He’s sure the hatted man was planning on poking him, a habit he does to make sure something’s rea.

Thorin nods. The shock of knowing his best friend is a priest is still sitting weirdly in his stomach and he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, he might spout something indignant or embarrassing.

“Right,” Dwalin nods, swatting Bofur’s finger once more. “Might I suggest we speak in a more private place?” He waits for Thorin to nod, because Bofur’s still staring at him and Dwalin’s certain the man hasn’t gotten over the shock yet for his brain to work.

Dwalin exits the confessional and opens the door to the confessor’s nook to help Thorin nudge their hatted friend out. Bofur’s still staring and Thorin had to tuck his friend’s gun back into it’s hidden holster while Dwalin hauled Bofur to his feet. The only movement Bofur did was to finally poke Dwalin in the cheek. This earns the poor man a hard whack on the upside of his head and a growl from Dwalin.

“You are Dwalin.” Bofur whispers in awe as he rubs his sore head.

“Right, follow me.” Dwalin walks quickly pass the wooden pews and into the door at the side of the altar, the same one the two sisters came from earlier. THroin and Bofur follow their friend, glancing to their surroundings once in a while.

After a few more turns, they reach a wooden door with an opaque window in the middle. A placard is hanging on the door with the name “Fr. Ishmael” written in fine penmanship.

“Ishmael?” Thorin finally finds his voice and couldn’t help but mention his best friend’s alter ego.

“Moby Dick.” The mirth in Dwalin’s voice is evident as he opens the door and motion for the two to enter his supposed office.

Dwalin closes the door and locks it for good measure the moment the two are inside. Bofur makes his way to the little tray that housed all the liquor and pours himself a large amount of what he thinks is brandy. Thorin makes himself comfortable on one of the leather armchairs in front of the wooden desk, waiting for Dwalin to start the conversation.

“What happened, mate?” Dwalin asks as he snatches the bottle of brandy from Bofur and pours two glasses. He hands one to Thorin and takes a sip from his own.

“Wet team came to my house the other day.” Thorin starts as he takes a drink from his glass. Dwalin furrows his eyebrows but keeps silent, waiting for Thorin to continue.

“We don’t know why they’re after me so we came here thinking you would know something.” Bofur says as he downs his third glass of brandy.

Dwalin shakes his head.

“I’ve been out of the business for a long time.” He takes another sip and leans on the edge of his desk. Bofur makes a face as he watches Dwalin. Dwalin notices and gruffly asks why the hatted man is staring at him and wincing at the same time.

“You sure that desk could hold you up, mate?” Bofur asks, his voice laced with concern and amusement. Leave it to Bofur to make a joke of mundane things.

“As a matter of fact it can.” Dwalin holds his head up and he suddenly looks smug. “It can even hold two if the opportunity deems it.” He smirks and Bofur chokes on his drink laughing. Thorin hums and smiles as he takes another sip.

“So which of the sister’s have a muscle fetish?” Bofur jokingly asks as he gets over his choking fit.

“It’s Ori.” Dwalin whispers into his glass but it’s loud enough for his two friends to hear. Bofur’s eyes widen and Thorin’s face contorts in confusion.

“Wait, so you’re not a priest?” Thorin suddenly blurts out as he sets his glass on the wooden table, making sure his skin doesn’t touch the surface though. The two of them don’t notice the way Bofur abruptly stops drinking at the mention of Ori.

Dwalin laughs and shakes his head. “This is my day job, mate. I’m Father Ishmael only until the sisters are all asleep safe in their little quarters. After that I’m Dwalin, a middle-aged man in a steady and healthy relationships with an art teacher from the elementary school a few streets down. This is all a cover, mate” He gestures to his

“You’re not middle-aged.” Thorin points out.

“Well, Ori says so.” Dwalin shrugs his shoulder as if his boyfriend’s word is final.

“Wait,” Bofur holds up one hand and stares at Dwalin, his eyes blinking. “Ori, as in, Nori’s Ori?”

The nod Bofur receives from Dwalin almost sends him in a frenzie. He quickly puts down his drink and walks closer to Dwalin.

“So, you know where Nori is?” Thorin could see the sudden shift in their hatted friend’s mood. He’s done with the light hearted conversation laced with jokes, it seems. The cheeky twinkle in Bofur’s eyes is suddenly gone and is suddenly replaced by what Thorin knows as anticipation and dread.

“Aye.” Dwalin lowers his head and Throin notices the change of tone in the larger man’s voice. “I’m really sorry, mate.” His voice lowers as he looks up at Bofur with sad eyes. Bofur’s eyes glimmer against the light as he stares at Dwalin.

Thorin slowly stands up and places his hand on Bofur’s shoulder but the hatted man jerks away from it and whirls around, his back facing both Dwalin and Thorin. The soft sniffs is the only thing they need to hear to know how Bofur feels about the news.

“Bofur.” Thorin calls out slowly.

“No!” Bofur turns around and glares at the two of them. “No! He is not dead, Dwalin. I know him!” Bofur’s voice quivers as he speaks.

“You’re lying.” He accuses as he glares at Dwalin and the latter could only shake his head and apologize once more.

“Bofur.” Thorin slowly calls his name once more. He’s coming closer now, knowing exactly how this will end for his friend.

“No.” Bofur glares at Thorin and points a finger at him, as if telling his friend to stop moving. Thorin doesn’t listen though and in a few more slow strides he’s got Bofur enveloped in his arms as his friend cries.


End file.
